In the Beginning
by Ash10
Summary: CHAPTER 4 NOW UP! The newly hired ramrod, Rowdy Yates, quits the drive! Please R&R and Thanks!
1. Chapter 1

In the Beginning

The saloon stunk of cheap perfume, rot-gut whiskey and sweat. To say it was a dive would've given it too much credit. Among the drunken cowboys, sleazy whores and card sharps cheating honest men out of their pokes one man stood apart. It wasn't his looks that singled him out to me; it was his attitude – as if he had nothing to lose and didn't mind proving it. Rangy and slim he leaned against the makeshift bar sipping at a whiskey, oblivious to the raucous hell-raising going on around him. I came in here looking for just the right man for the job. I hope I found him. My name is Gil Favor and if I can round up enough good hands, drovers, wranglers, cook, ramrod and scout, I'll soon be tacking trail boss onto my name. Wish me luck. I'll need it.

Gil Favor pushed his way through the crowd to belly up to the bar alongside the rangy cowboy. "Buy you a drink?" he asked in his most affable way.

"Thanks, but I already got one," was the surly reply to the generous offer.

"How 'bout some supper then? You look like you could use a decent meal." Gil smiled but it was lost on the cowboy who had yet to look up. Crowded up against him like he was, Gil couldn't help but feel the other man tense. Not a good sign.

The cowboy stopped staring into his drink and raised his head just enough to peer up at Favor from beneath dark brows. Narrow eyes of a deep amber appraised Gil and for a moment Favor felt he just might have misjudged a man he thought he knew well. He hadn't.

"Captain Favor, well I'll be!" Pete Nolan's expression changed in an instant from dour and suspicious to warm and friendly as he patted his old commanding officer vigorously on the back. "Well I'll be!" he repeated, beaming. "How 'bout I buy you supper? Where you been? What 'cha been up to these last few years?"

Over supper the two ex-soldiers discussed old times, the war, lost comrades and broken ideals. After that conversation turned to the more recent past – a subject neither man found much comfort in though each discovered yet another common denominator in their otherwise divergent lives; both men were widowed. Gil Favor lost a wife who'd spent the better part of their marriage waiting for her soldier-husband to return from war whereas Pete Nolan lost a wife he'd just barely gotten the time to know. Both were still grieving and both were searching for something to fill in the god-awful empty space which nothing seemed able to fill. If even the love of Gil's two daughters couldn't do it then what chance did the childless Pete Nolan have?

"So, Captain, what brings you back to Texas?" Pete accepted a refill of coffee from the waiter and ordered dessert, peach pie. Gil did likewise.

"I've got a contract to move a heard up the Sedalia trail. It's a thousand miles of dirt, heat, Indians, rustlers and bad weather, or so I've heard tell. Sign on, Pete. I need a scout. As I recall you ranged all over this part of the country." Gil dug into the pie as he waited expectantly for Nolan to answer. He should've known by the look on his ex-sergeant-major's face that he was in for at least a discussion if not a downright no.

Pete rubbed at three day's growth of well on to a decent beard scruff, hemmed and hawed and in general put off answering. "Well, you make a trail drive sound so damned inviting, Captain. I mean, what more could a cowboy ask for but bad weather, rustlers and all…but I gotta turn ya down. See, I've already got a job."

"Did I mention the scout makes twenty dollars more a month?" Gil figured he'd sweeten the pot, but Nolan looked less than convinced.

"Actually, I'm only waiting around here to get paid. This place ain't exactly healthy – if you get my meanin.'" Pete jerked a thumb toward the door, indicating the three men who had just entered the small eatery. Armed to the teeth they were as mean a looking bunch of toughs as Gil had seen in some time and the scary part was – they were staring directly at Pete Nolan and there wasn't so much as a pleasant expression among the bunch.

"Friends a yours?" Gil asked.

"Oh sure. Want me to introduce you?" Pete replied with the slightest hint of sarcasm. "They probably wanna spit my liver on a stake…I just turned their damned brother in to the sheriff."

"For the reward?" Favor hissed. "You're a bounty hunter?" Gil was shocked. He never figured Pete Nolan to go in for that type of work, but war changed a man and that was certain. It had changed him.

Pete leaned in closer to Favor. "Did I say that?"

Gil thought even Nolan must be ashamed of his newly chosen profession; ashamed enough not to admit to what it was. Favor lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug.

"What I made for the six weeks it took me to track that murderin' bastard down sure beats hell outta what, fifty dollars a month scoutin' for a trail drive? He'll get what he's got comin' to him and I'll get what's comin' to me."

Over Pete's shoulder Gil watched the men approach; each wearing a black scowl like it was the only expression they'd ever entertained. "Yeah, well I'll bet you're gonna get what's comin' to you first! Your friends are walkin' over here and I'm wagerin' they ain't gonna ask to buy you a cup a coffee."

Pete couldn't move his hands from the table without being seen. Unable to reach for his holstered pistol, he was a sitting duck, but with the brothers' gaze focused totally on him to the exclusion of all else, Gil could and did reach for his Colt. Removing it from the holster, he slipped it beneath the napkin in his lap. He prayed he wouldn't have to use it, but he wasn't ready to allow Pete Nolan to die either. They'd been through too much together; had been there for each other too many times as members of John Bell Hood's renowned Texas Brigade - at Fredericksburg and Marye's Heights; at Gettysburg; at Antietem and at Appomattox Court House during the surrender. Foolish as Gil Favor believed Pete Nolan's choice of jobs to be, he'd back him in this play. There was no other choice.

However, luck or fate intervened. The sheriff walked in just as the brothers reached the table. Seeing the lawman, they backed off without so much as a single word, though Gil swore he heard at least one of them growl.

"Here's your money, Nolan." The sheriff slapped the thick envelope down onto the table, narrowly missing Pete's pie plate. "Now I want you outta my town and outta my county before nightfall. I don't go in for your kind a work." He leaned in close to snarl "your kind sets my teeth on edge. "

Pete was totally nonplussed. Obviously this wasn't the first time a lawman had objected to him or to his line of work. "If you and your kind would do your jobs, I wouldn't have to do 'em for ya." Nolan replied. As Pete reached for the envelope the sheriff backhanded him across the face, the strength of the blow knocking the unsuspecting man backwards, chair and all crashing to the floor. Pete came up in a rage, his hand centimeters from his gun.

It was Gil who stopped him, his Colt trained on Nolan's midsection. "Don't do it, Pete," he warned, shaking his head. "Don't do it."

Nolan's hands clenched into fists, but somehow he managed to get control of his anger, if just barely. "If it was anybody but you, Captain…anybody else…" he warned and though Gil knew Pete would never hurt him, even aware of that, certain of it, a chill coursed down his spine at the expression of repressed fury on the other man's face.

The sheriff smiled. "Thank the captain here, Nolan. I mighta been forced to kill you and wouldn't that a been a shame? I won't tell you again. Get outta my town and outta my county. You got," he pulled a silver watch out of his waistcoat pocket and gazed thoughtfully at the time. "You got just about three hours. You better ride fast cause that's barely enough time to make it to the county line." The sheriff tipped his hat to Gil. "Good day to you, Captain." As he walked past Pete he purposely bumped into him, attempting to goad him into a foolish action, but Nolan didn't bite. Besides, Favor still held him under his gun though Pete knew that was for show – or was it?

Gil walked Pete to the livery and watched him pack up his gear. "Sure you won't change your mind? This line a work," Favor paused. Hemming and hawing really wasn't like him, but he truly was lost for words. "This line a work'll make for a short life, Pete, too short. Now it ain't like cattle drivin' is any picnic, but…"

Nolan waved Gil off, shaking his head. "You mean well, Captain, but I'd take it as a favor if you'd mind your business and leave me out of it." Pete tightened the cinch on the buckskin and turned to face Favor. "I don't give a damn how short life is…far as I'm concerned I've lived too long already. I've outlived anything I've ever cared about." Grief was obvious in his eyes and his posture and Gil felt the bond between them strengthen. He knew exactly how Pete felt, exactly, though he hadn't lost everyone; there were his daughters. He lived and breathed for them; experiencing life through them. Pete Nolan lived and breathed and that was all.

Nolan swung a long leg up over the saddle. Touching the brim of his sweat-stained Stetson, he offered the former captain a parting salute. "Good luck with your drive, Mr. Favor. Maybe we'll cross trails again."

Gil's smile was tempered with sadness, "Same to you, Pete and I gotta feeling we'll run each to each other before long."

Favor returned to the dingy café, nursing bottomless cups of bitter coffee and smoking an endless number of harsh hand-rolled cigarettes. Time was growing short and though he'd had the word out he was looking for drovers nigh on to a week, only half a dozen had signed up so far and none of them the cream of any man's crop, but the two he was courting now seemed like the real deal.

They'd walked in together and it was plain they were old hands by the way they moved - slow and easy; the way they spoke - plain and simple; and they way they dressed – like the working men they were with well-used but cared for tools of their trade – chaps, boots and spurs in good order and nothing gaudy about them.

Gil discovered they'd been friends for years; had worked some of the biggest spreads in Texas and had gone to war and returned, but they missed the adventure of travel and so they signed on the dotted lines and Favor was glad to have them. They'd be the lynch pins of his drive; the solid core around which he could build. Scrutinizing the less than perfect penmanship Gil greeted each with a firm handshake.

"Glad to have you, Jim…Quince is it?"

"Yeah, uh, yes sir, Mr. Favor. It's Quince awright." Jim replied around the cigarette which dangled from his lower lip and which Gil was to discover perpetually dangled from Quince's lower lip unless he was eating or drinking.

"And you, Joe Scarlet…glad you're on board." Though Scarlet towered over the diminutive Quince, it appeared Jim was the spokesman of the pair as Scarlet had a gentleness about him, a shyness which didn't lend itself to being overly talky, though his handshake was firm, very.

"Thanks…thanks, Boss." He murmured softly.

"I'll need you both out at the trailhead by noon tomorrow. Just follow the road east outta town about ten miles. My wagons are there, ready and waiting."

"We'll be there, Boss," Quince smiled. Scarlet nodded.

Word of mouth brought in half a dozen more drovers. Seems when men as highly regarded among their own kind as Quince and Scarlet sign on for a drive, others of like ilk feel it's a stamp of approval and sign on as well. Within an hour Gil Favor filled his roster with the best drovers the area had to offer. Pleased with his success he saddled his horse and rode east; glad to leave the confines of town behind.

Not five miles from camp Gil heard the echo of a gunshot some distance down the road, at first giving it scant thought. 'Probably just somebody out after birds,' he mused, 'Lots a grouse around these parts.'

Loping down the rode, his mind now occupied by the daunting task ahead of him – rounding up and branding nearly three thousand head of prime, yet dangerously wild, beeves, Gil was not prepared when three men burst out of the scrub directly into the road in front of him – like a covey of quail scared up by a coyote – and headed off at a dead run across country.

"What the hell?" he asked.

Cautiously, Gil entered the trees at the point the men had exited, hand on his holstered gun.

The first thing he saw was a horse, its reins dangling to the ground as it browsed – a large buckskin gelding – Pete Nolan's animal certainly. Favor felt a cold sweat break out, though the day was far from chill. "Pete?" he called. There was no answer.

TBC -Feeback is always appreciated and thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

In the Beginning, Part 2

Feedback is always appreciated! Thanks!

XXXX

Favor dismounted, alert to any sounds. Picking up Buck's dangling reins he tied Nolan's mount and his own to a low hanging branch. Drawing his Colt from the holster, he thumbed the hammer back.

"Pete?" he called again, more insistently; again, no answer. Favor ventured deeper into the trees, following obvious signs of a struggle, pistol level and ready.

On the ground at the foot of a scrub oak laid Nolan, unmoving, his clothing covered in yellow caliche and blood and with a rope noose pulled snug against his throat.

Gil slid the Colt away and knelt at Pete's side. The first thing, after checking to be certain Nolan was breathing, was to loosen the noose and slide it, gently, over Pete's head.

Favor left the injured man where he lay and hurried back to the horses. Lifting his canteen he uncorked the top and took a long swallow. Whiskey would've been better at chasing down the bile. After seeing so much in war, so much of man's inhumanity to man, Gil never figured to be sickened by it again. He was wrong.

Back at Nolan's side, he wet his kerchief and patted the cool, water-soaked cloth lightly against the battered face. At his touch Pete started to come around and Gil offered him a drink. He took it and it seemed to help. Nolan blinked his eyes open, staring groggily up at Favor.

"No need to ask who did this. I'd say you asked for it, the line a work you're in. Comin' out here alone wasn't so bright either," Gil added, aware he was preaching, but not caring.

"You ain't my superior officer any more, Favor," Nolan gritted out. "Save your sermons for somebody who cares."

Gil rocked back, stoppered the canteen and got to his feet. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you got yourself into this on purpose. I'll be back with a wagon since you're in no shape to ride a horse. Try not to move any. And Pete, just sos you know…not carin' whether you live or die…that's nothin' new to me."

"Hey, lookit here, Joe! Somebody tied a perfectly good horse to this here branch and just left it! A nice buckskin, too!"

Jim Quince rode into the small clearing. Unlike Gil Favor, he felt no foreboding and little wonder at why someone would leave so fine an animal. But then, for better or worse, he'd been reinforced by the pint he'd been sucking at since leaving town. Not drunk, not by a long shot, he was just well-oiled.

Joe Scarlet broke through the scrub and took in the situation, shaking his head slowly at his friend's wishful thinking. "Why don't be foolish, Jim. The owner's gotta be around here; maybe taking a siesta or somethin'. Would you leave a fine animal like that? Why, he's probably got a bead on us right now!"

Quince ducked low in the saddle while his hand snaked down to the pistol on his hip. His head swiveled about on his shoulders like an owl's, his small beady eyes alert now to any movement, any out-of-the-ordinary noises. "Ya think so, Joe?" he whispered.

"I think so." Joe climbed down from the saddle and cast about like a bloodhound on a trail. Like Favor, he found the signs of the struggle easy to follow – broken off branches, wallows in the dirt, drag marks, and he followed them. "There's a fella over here! Looks mighty bad off!"

The two cowboys knelt at the man's side, their expressions of disgust at the beaten, broken man, mirror images. "Who you suppose it is?" Jim asked.

Joe shrugged. "You tell me."

At the sound of the voices the man opened one eye – the other now swollen completely shut. "Quince…Scarlet," he murmured from between split lips. "It's Nolan…Pete Nolan."

The mirrored looks now expressed shock. "Pete Nolan from down Bastrop way? From the Rockin' K? That Pete Nolan?" Quince asked, still doubtful of the man's identity since even Nolan's own ma wouldn't have recognized him in his current condition. Quince shook his head, but the whiskey-induced cobwebs remained firmly anchored.

Nolan nodded.

"Why we ain't seen you since we split up off the Rockin' K to go to war! What the hell happened here, Pete? Who done this to ya?"

If Quince was all for answers then Scarlet was all for help. "I'll ride to town and get a doctor," but Nolan's hand on his wrist stopped him.

"No. Favor's comin' back… bringin' a wagon." It was all Pete managed before his strength failed and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"We'll just wait for the boss to show up then," Scarlet reckoned. "We best be wary, Jim. Don't know that the jaspers who done this won't be comin' back to finish the job."

Quince agreed. "You take first watch. I'll make ole Pete comfortable as I can till Mr. Favor gets here."

When Gil arrived with the wagon and his cook/medical man in tow, he was surprised to see Joe Scarlet guarding the road in front of the small clearing, Henry rifle in hand. The big cowboy nodded a greeting.

Favor was even more surprised to see how Jim Quince had gotten a camp set up in the short time since he'd left to get help. A brisk fire burned hotly, coffee was on the boil and Pete was being tended as best a man could with so little to work with. A bedroll supported his head and a blanket was tucked in around the lean body. Obviously Quince had been at work on the battered face as much of the blood had been washed away, though to Gil that left only the bare unvarnished damage three pairs of fists could work on flesh and bone.

Lifting Nolan's hands, one at a time, Gil checked them over for bruising or knuckle damage. For a man in a fight for his life, there was little or no bruising and hardly a skinned knuckle; not what he expected from a hard scrappy fighter like Pete Nolan. Gil was mystified.

"Outta the way; outta the way." George Washington Wishbone shoved past the curious Jim Quince on the way to his patient.

Fiftyish, small and balding with bright blue eyes and an intelligent if glowering expression, Wishbone as he preferred to be called or just Wish for short, a former mountain man and damned proud of it, was impatient, irascible and about as knowledgeable as most physicians when it came to doctoring, although he lacked formal education. Wishbone's knowledge came from on-the-job training. He was also a fair to passable cook, though he'd say he was great and there were times he'd be correct. A trail drive moved on the contented stomachs of not only the cattle, but the men.

Wishbone knelt at Nolan's side. "What a mess," he grumbled as he went about examining the patient. "What a gawd-awful mess!" Noticing the amount of blood soaking into the makeshift 'pillow' beneath the patient's head, Wishbone called to Favor for assistance.

With Gil holding Nolan up against his shoulder, it was a piece of cake for Wishbone to locate the blood's source. "There's a deep gouge through the hair runnin' left to right; I'd say from a bullet."

Wishbone looked up at Quince. "How come you missed this?"

Jim Quince hemmed and hawed. "Well," he said, kicking at a clump of dirt he suddenly found most intriguing, "I figured it best not to move ole Pete around too much. Figured the less he got handled…well, you know."

Quince, still somewhat under the influence, was innocent of the fact his breath revealed his up close and personal dalliance with a certain whiskey bottle.

Wishbone wrinkled his nose. "You got a breath on you like a hot mince pie! It's a wonder to me how you got anything done around here!"

Gil carefully laid Nolan back on the pallet, this time on his side so Wish would have easy access to the head wound. "I missed it too Wishbone and I ain't been drinkin'."

Then, as if speaking to himself, Favor pondered aloud, "That's why he didn't put up a fight. The bastards shot him outta the saddle, then beat hell out of him. Hanging woulda been next. Must be they heard me comin' and broke it off. I never did know a backshooter with any guts."

"Who'd have it in for Pete anyhow?" Quince asked between deep drags on a cigarette.

Gil focused his attention on the smoke-enveloped Quince. "How do you know Pete?"

"We, me and Joe here, we worked the same ranch together, back before the war. Spent two, maybe three years at the Rockin' K. Ole Pete's a good cowhand," Jim replied.

"A good friend, too," Scarlet added solemnly. "Who'd do this to him?"

"He turned bounty hunter and when a man chooses a certain way to make a livin', trouble always follows. Nolan took a man in for murder. His brothers didn't like the idea. Was them who did this." Favor replied.

"NO! I ain't believin' Pete turned no bounty hunter! Why bounty huntin's a low job and Pete Nolan ain't no low fella!" Scarlet shook his head vehemently.

Jim Quince agreed. "Not ole Pete," he swore, placing yet another quirly to his lips and a match to the quirly.

"I knew Pete in the war and I believed the same as you, but he as much as told me so himself. War changes men and that's a fact." Gil said.

"War does change a man and that's true," Joe agreed. "But I'll never believe Pete Nolan turned bounty hunter."

Wishbone interrupted the rather intense discussion with an update on the patient's condition. "Well, the stitches are in and the bleedin's stopped." Wish sighed deeply. "I surely do hate doctorin' busted heads. You can't see inside to figure out exactly what's hurt and how bad. A man just never does know how the patient's gonna react. Some live. Some die," he stated matter-of-factly.

Gil Favor cocked one eyebrow. "So, you tellin' me Pete's gonna live or what?"

Wishbone put on an offended expression. "You're mighty well told he's gonna live! G.W. Wishbone is almost as good at doctorin' as he is at cookin'!"

"Well, since I ain't ate none a your cookin' yet, I guess your doctorin' skills just have to go on faith," Favor replied.

Wishbone quickly changed the subject as he began cleaning up the mess he'd made, murmuring under his breath, but plenty loud enough for Favor to hear,

"I need me a good cook's louse. Somebody to do all this menial labor! A man a my skills shouldn't be wastin' valuable time on such tasks as these!"

Gil figured on how Wishbone was right. He'd keep his eye out for a suitable louse; a man big enough to do the hard lifting and carrying for the diminutive cook, but with little desire to do anything but the job at hand. In other words, a man with no motivation, scant schooling yet intelligent enough to take orders yet affable and easy to get along with. Favor thought on how filling that position might be more difficult than he imagined. So far, a lot about trail bossing was more difficult than he imaged. Just getting the trail drive started seemed a goal fast slipping from his reach.

"When can we move him?" Gil inquired of Wishbone. What he got was a scowl.

"He's lost more blood than any livin' man has a right to and you wanna know when he can be moved?" Wish shook his head and Favor began counting lost days.

"How's tomorrow morning, first light? I can pad the wagon bed with plenty a spare blankets. He should be fine."

Gil smiled, "Sounds good to me."

Rowdy Yates, 21 years old, tall, gangly, good-looking and possessed of only two things worth mentioning – his good reputation and a decent set of tack, horse included. Nothing else he owned amounted to much more than a plug nickel, but that was okay with Rowdy. Veteran of the late war, he was a young man with itchy feet and a need to push on, always on and never look back. Back was scratching out a living on a shoddy bit of dust-blown Texas nobody else had any want of with an absent drunk for a father and a work-worn Mother, old and faded before her time. The least he could do, this child of tough times, was to make life more bearable for her with cash sent home from a regular pay check. Ramrod on a cattle drive provided that and a bit more. Rowdy took the job Gil Favor offered. He took it not just for the money, but because of Favor himself. Here was a man to emulate. Too young to be a true father figure, Gil Favor was just the type of person from whom Rowdy could learn much.

With the boss off in town yet again, this time searching out a decent cook's louse for Wishbone, Rowdy was beset with difficulties. Mostly it was the need for more drovers. They were still several short and time running out for the drive to begin. When three men rode up, with their own horses, rifles, bedrolls and lariats, and looking for work, Rowdy heaved a huge sigh of relief. The three were hired on the spot, few questions asked. It was the first mistake of Rowdy Yates' budding career as a ramrod. It wouldn't be his last.

Instead of following the ramrod's orders to help with rounding up the last of the beeves to be branded, the three brothers headed to the chuck wagon to see if they could scrounge up some eats from the cook. Unbeknownst to them, they'd soon be butting heads with Wishbone – an immoveable object if ever there was one.

No one was around when the three rode into camp. Of the two wagons, the one nearest the fire seemed their best bet of grabbing some grub before heading off to finally follow orders. The eldest, Jackson, slipped down from his mount and went about poking his nose into the sacrosanctity of the chuck wagon. His reward was a sack of jerky and a handful of hardtack – he thought.

"What the hell you think yer doin' goin' through MY chuck wagon?" The cook appeared from behind a slight ridge, wild onions dangling from one hand, a Colt pistol gripped in the other, cocked, aimed and ready.

"Ramrod said we could get some grub 'fore we started the job. We ain't ate since yesterday!" Jackson lied, at least about Rowdy.

Wishbone eyed the three suspiciously. Having never seen them before he figured they might well be murderers on the run from the law. He dropped the onions on the tailgate of the wagon, never letting down his guard, or his weapon. "Ramrod, huh? He hire you?"

"Yeah – rangy kid on a bay horse…Rowdy. He hired us just today!" Jackson looked smug.

"Well, you just take yourselves outta here 'cause unless Mr. Favor hired you, you ain't hired!" With a sharp nod of the head Wishbone punctuated the sentence.

"We'll just see about that, old man!" Jackson replied, swinging up onto the back of his horse, food still in hand. "We'll just see!"

"Yeah, guess we'll do that, but 'till then, you toss that jerky right on over here. The hardtack you can keep; it's got weevils in it anyhow!" Wish smiled at the look of disgust on the man's face as he dropped the bug-infested bread to the ground.

"We'll be back, old man," Jackson promised. "And then you'll eat yer words." Jerking his horse's head around hard, he kicked the gelding in the ribs and tore off.

"I might be eatin' my words, you big-mouthed gas bag, but that's more than you'll ever get to eat around here!" Wishbone muttered as the three tore out of camp.

"Jack! Jackson! Hold up a minute! I gotta tell ya somethin'!" While Jackson and middle sibling Bill were occupied with the cook, Jeremy had snooped around camp. In the back of the second wagon, the one hold holding tack and such, he'd seen something through the opened flaps that was pretty darned important.

"Nolan's in that camp! I saw him! In the supply wagon. Didn't look none too good, but sure enough looked alive, though!"

Jack turned to glare at his brother. "You certain sure it was Nolan and not some cowboy busted up on the job?"

Not having thought about that, Jeremy shrugged. "Now you mention it…I ain't so sure. Busted up is busted up. All's I really saw was dark curly hair. Guess that don't make a fella Nolan."

"Damned right, it don't, but…if there's any doubt at all…we gotta get back in ta that camp and see. Iffen Nolan lives he'll identify us _and_ he turned Jimmy into the law. When Jimmy hangs it'll be just like Nolan put the noose around his neck with his own hands. We got two reasons to get that bastard…and we'll get him.

The new cook's louse, one Mushy Mushgrove, was exactly what Gil Favor had hoped to find – big, affable and not terribly bright, though Favor would discover and happily that the big kid possessed a great deal of heart, loyalty and even common sense. Mushy's first friend at his new job wasn't even a member of the drive.

"My name's Mushy," he said, smiling broadly as he held the coffee cup to the lips of the battered, bandaged man in the back of the supply wagon. "I'm pleased to meet ya!" He grinned, exposing a set of perfectly white, straight teeth and an engaging, open personality.

"Pete Nolan." Pete acknowledged. That he could speak at all was a tribute to Wishbone who'd been hard at his healing with tonics, potions, poultices and the like.

"I'm the cook's louse! Today's my first day on the job and Mr. Wishbone said I could look after you a while since he's gettin' supper ready for the men!" Seeing that his patient had drained the cup, Mushy offered to go for more. "Another cup for ya, Mr. Nolan?" Already the youngster was half-way out of the wagon.

"Pete…just Pete," Nolan corrected. "No thanks, Mushy. I've fine…but thanks."

Mushy stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh, I just couldn't call you Pete, Mr. Nolan! It wouldn't be right! My ma always told me…'Mushy,' she said, 'always say please and thank you and never call your betters by their first names! It isn't proper – so ma said!" Mushy grinned sheepishly before ducking out through the wagon flap.

Pete Nolan rested back on the soft pallet and stared up at the canvas ceiling above his head. "Boy, I ain't nobody's better," he murmured. But then something happened to Pete, something came over him, that same something that caused a similar reaction the first time he saw Captain Favor after so long a time, Pete Nolan smiled, tentatively, awkwardly. Before that morning and his meeting with Favor, Pete could not honestly remember when he had smiled last, and meant it.

The new cook's louse returned in record time with another cup of coffee, which he juggled from hand to hand, considerately blowing on the hot liquid to cool it. Seeing that it was fine coffee indeed and Pete really had badly wanted another cup, he gratefully drank it down; the bond between the two men effectively sealed by Arbuckles' Fine Roast Arabica.

Xxxx

"You ain't supposed to be outta that wagon! Where's your good sense or wasn't you born with any?" Wishbone threatened his wayward patient with a well-worn wooden spoon. To his credit, however, Pete Nolan hardly flinched. Of course that was partially due to the fact that he couldn't see anything through his swollen-shut right eye and little more than that through the left. Besides, no old man wielding a spoon of all things was going to intimidate him!

Pete tilted his head just enough to stare at the spoon-wielding Wishbone through his one good eye. "Guess good sense is just somethin' I wasn't born with," he replied.

Nolan's honest answer caught Wish off guard. Just when he was working up a good 'mad,' his patient went and agreed with him which naturally ruined everything. Throwing up his hands in disgust, Wishbone turned on his heel and stalked, stiff-legged, back to his pots and pans. But before Pete could settle down and relax, the old man was back, this time using the wooden spoon as an extension of his finger. Jabbing the utensil close to Pete's chest, Wishbone got in the last word.

"You best not faint and topple head first into that fire 'cause I sure as hell ain't gonna be the one to patch you up again!" Wish leaned in close. "You hear me, boy?"

Now Pete Nolan hadn't been called 'boy' for many a year and hearing it issued in such a solemn way from such a serious fellow as this Wishbone character, well it made Pete smile for the second time in as many hours. The smile vanished as quickly as it appeared lest Wishbone believe Nolan's reply less than credible. "I sure enough hear you, mister," Pete said solemnly.

Pete was enjoying his respite near the fire and the company of two old friends made the time pass quickly. Jim Quince was full of stories, old and new, some plausible, most not, but all enjoyable while Joe Scarlet's quiet presence seemed to comfort and relax a troubled mind.

Other drovers filtered in as the time came for the evening meal. Introductions were made and it appeared to Pete Nolan that this was a camp divided – divided over their opinion of him. This concerned Pete greatly. To make trouble for Captain Favor certainly wasn't his intent.

Several cowboys actually saw fit to take their dinner plates and move away from the fire. Their mumbled comments about not being able to stomach being around a damned stinking bounty hunter did not go unnoticed. Jim Quince leaped to his feet spewing cuss words around the ever present quirly stuck to his bottom lip, his defense of a friend taken to new heights as he threatened to kick the cow crap out of one and all.

Before anyone could take Quince up on his offer, Gil Favor rode into camp with Rowdy Yates close behind. Gil's first reaction was relief at seeing Pete actually out of bed and away from what had appeared to be death's door. His second reaction was dismay. Here the drive hadn't even begun and one of his drovers was threatening to take on half the camp one man at a time or all at once. Gil cast a glance skyward and offered a quick prayer that the drive, once it got underway of course, might go smoothly and without further difficulties. "Amen."

"What's that you said, Boss?" Rowdy asked as he reined in next to Favor, a questioning look on his face.

Gil sighed. "Nothing, Rowdy. It was nothing at all." Favor stepped down off his mount and handed the reins to Hey Soos, the young horse wrangler. Yates did the same.

Favor waved away Mushy and the plate of pro-offered food. Settling a disturbance came before a good meal or even a cup of longed for coffee.

"What's going on here?" he asked Quince.

"Those yahoos over there," Jim pointed at the drovers clustered at the supply wagon glaring daggers in his direction, "they called Pete a dirty name and seein' as how ole Pete at exactly able to defend hisself…"

"What exactly did they call Mr. Nolan that made you figure he needed your help in defending his good name?" Gil figured he knew the answer, but it didn't hurt to be certain.

Quince leaned toward Gil and answered in a conspiratorial whisper, "Bounty hunter…they called Pete a damned stinkin' bounty hunter."

Favor found Pete looking up at him and although the sight of the swollen battered face quite nearly turned his stomach yet again, he was taken by Nolan's steadfast expression. He was also rather confused. Renewed name-calling by both sides broke his concentration.

"He is so a damned bounty hunter!"

"Is not!"

"Is so!"

Gil wanted to press his hands over his ears to drown out the noise, instead he raised his voice and in doing so found his deep booming baritone to be most effective. Silence was complete.

"Now," he began, "since it is nobody's business what Mr. Nolan does for a living since he is not a member of this drive…I want the subject dropped and dropped now!"

You could have heard a pin hit the stony ground.

Pete Nolan rose rather shakily to his feet. "Captain Favor, I'd like to set things straight. I know I don't owe anybody here an explanation, but there are a few folks I'd rather not have thinkin' the worst of me."

"Go on, Pete, but you can talk just as easy sitting." Gil indicated Nolan's vacant seat.

Before Pete got the chance to sit back down, three men rode hell-bent into camp raising a cloud of dust and Favor's ire. "What do you want here?" Gil barked, his patience at a low ebb.

"Ask the ramrod," the first man replied. "He hired us this mornin'!"

Favor glanced at Yates. Rowdy nodded. "We needed more men, Mr. Favor. They fit the bill."

"All right, so you three 'fit the bill.' What gives you the right to ride in here like you own the place?" Gil squinted in the meager fire light, straining to discern faces and features. He felt a sudden crawl of apprehension.

"You…you three came lookin' for Pete yesterday. You're the ones who bushwhacked him." Favor's hand crept slowly to the Colt holstered at his hip.

Next to him Pete agreed. "It's them…the Diehl brothers."

"You just leave that no good bounty hunter to us, _Captain_ Favor and nobody else gets hurt," Jackson said, a slow grin twisting his lips.

Several of Gil's own drovers added their two cents worth by agreeing with Diehl. "We don't want no trouble 'cause a Nolan! He ain't nothin' to us!"

But others came quickly to Pete's defense. "You can't turn a man over to them! You seen what they already did to him. Why, it'd be murder!"

In a manner totally opposite to the raucousness goings on about him, Pete Nolan quietly offered up a fact. It was stated in so calm a whisper Gil wondered if he was the only one to hear it. "I'm no bounty hunter," Pete said. But others heard and heads swiveled in his direction.

Gil's jaw dropped at this new revelation. "But you as much as told me you were, back in the café, in San Antonio," he said.

Pete shook his head. "No, when I said I'd just turned these fellas' brother in for murder you asked if I was a bounty hunter. I answered your question with a question of my own. Captain, you a_ssumed _my line of work. I didn't correct you because I work undercover. If the outlaws I track believe I'm a bounty hunter, then so be it. That just makes it easier for me." Slowly, painfully, Pete reached into the inside pocket of his vest. Upon his opened palm lay what appeared to be a small copper and brass button.

Gil leaned down to read aloud the words engraved around the outside of the quarter-sized badge, "Pinkerton Rail Road," and across the center, "Detective." Favor released a low soft whistle. "But the envelope…the envelope with the reward money…I saw the sheriff hand it over to you."

"Things ain't always what they seem, Captain. It wasn't a reward, it was my pay. When I told you I made good money I wasn't exaggerating. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before. I couldn't blow my cover."

"Then why tell us now?" Favor reached over and picked up the badge. So small as to be almost undetectable, it could remain hidden until needed.

"Why now?" Pete took the badge from Gil's hand and tucked it away, "Because I'm quitting the Pinkerton's. You were right. That line a work _can_ make for a short life. I found that out the hard way." Nolan touched a hand to his throbbing temple. "Bein' a scout on a cattle drive might be the lesser a two evils after all."

Rifles being cocked drew everyone's immediate attention. The brothers Diehl, weapons covering not only Pete Nolan, but Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates, sat their horses, grinning, almost salivating at what was to come. "We don't care who you work for, Nolan. You're gonna die for what you did to our brother!" Jackson's laughter echoed through the stunned camp.

"Not so fast!" Stepping around the side of the supply wagon Wishbone trained his shotgun on the Diehls. "This here ten gauge Greener is loaded with buckshot. Both barrels are guaranteed to take out all three a you and probably your horses, too! Mushy?"

The youngster stepped into the light. Although he looked frightened half to death, the rifle in his hands remained steady as he backed Wishbone's play.

Gil Favor motioned several of his men forward while Wishbone and Mushy kept the Diehl brothers well-covered. "Relieve these men of their weapons. Quince and Joe Scarlet – tie 'em to the wagon wheels and make sure the knots are good and tight."

Gil rested a hand on Pete Nolan's shoulder, but spoke to Rowdy. "Tomorrow we take 'em in to the sheriff."

Xxxx

Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough for Gil Favor. For hours he tossed on his blankets courtesy of the Diehl brothers who kept the entire camp awake with their impotent threats and foul-mouthed ravings, until Wishbone decided enough was enough. It took the combined strength of half a dozen of the biggest drovers to get the job done, but done it was; Jackson, Bill and Jeremy were gagged but good.

However, the silence came too late for Gil. He'd lain awake too long and not even the dearest thoughts of home and family could bring sleep. He watched the sun rise with a cup of Wishbone's good coffee in one hand and a cigarillo in the other. Favor breathed deeply of the cool sweet air and freed his mind of problems, all but one – the Diehls.

A well-armed Rowdy Yates, backed by the equally well-heeled Jim Quince and Joe Scarlet, escorted the trio of bushwhackers in to the sheriff. With that, the first real threat to his drive out of the way, Gil felt a sudden rush of relief. Crushing the smoke out beneath a booted foot he drained the remainder of his coffee and went to check on Pete Nolan.

Pete was already awake when Gil pulled aside the wagon flap. Though Nolan's smile was slightly lopsided it was a true smile in all respects. Favor climbed up and edged his way through the narrow space to sit at Pete's side. "We've got some talkin' to do," he said.

"Where'd you wanna start, Boss," Nolan replied.

Gil grinned. "Well, with the boss part I guess. Pete, did you mean what you said last night – about quitin' the Pinkerton's and coming to work for me?"

Nolan took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before nodding. "I meant it…that is…if you'll still take me on as scout for this here drive. You see, Captain…well…" Pete stalled over the words but after a moment plunged right ahead. "I guess what I'm meanin' to say is – I'm tired of runnin'- runnin' from the war, runnin' from the grief of losin' my wife, runnin' from myself. Captain, I'm ready for somethin' new. I'm ready to start livin' again."

Gil stuck out his hand. "Pay is $50.00 a month to start. There's a bonus at the end dependin' on how many of the cattle get through and what the market's payin'. What do you say, Pete Nolan?"

Pete extended his hand and the two men shook. "I say okay, Boss. Now what else did you wanna talk about?"

Favor reached into a chest pocket and pulled out paper and tobacco which he fashioned into a tight quirly. "I just need to know how a good Texican like you ever got roped into working for a damn Yankee like that Pinkerton fella?"

Pete relaxed onto his blankets and took the cigarette Gil Favor held out to him. Accepting a light Nolan inhaled with obvious satisfaction. "Well, Boss, it was like this," he said.

END


	3. Chapter 3

Gil Favor knew he had to choose a ramrod for this, his first cattle drive, but he never figured the choice would be so difficult; so much depended on hiring the right man for the job.

Favor sat in the stuffy hotel room, not even bothering to open the window that was well within his reach. At the moment, even so small a task seemed beyond him, he was that tired. It wasn't so much fatigue of a physical level, but more an emotional drain. The physical part was easy for Favor, fit as he was and just reaching the prime of his life. The emotional stress was another ball of wax – that type he couldn't work off or sweat off or sleep off. It bore down on him, sapping his energy and his resolve. If he didn't choose the right man, to back his plays, take over the herd if, heaven forbid, he, as Boss, became incapacitated or even died on the trail, the cattle owners – those ranchers large and small who trusted him with everything of value they owned, would be let down, possibly even ruined for life.

Favor rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his hand as if he could scrub away the image of those ranchers, simple, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth types, with their open, forthright expressions of faith – faith in him. _Damn them for being trusting fools_, he thought. _And damn me for thinking I could get the job done!_

But agonizing over his fate was getting him nowhere. Favor took paper from the stack on the tiny writing desk and dipped the pen in the inkwell. On the top of the foolscap he made three columns. At the top of each column he wrote down the name of each of the men still in the running for the ramrod job; Cy Bleaker, Tully Smith and Rowdy Yates. Beneath each name he penned in their attributes or lack thereof. One man always seemed to fall far short of the others, Rowdy Yates.

Favor tapped the pen on the desk. "Never been on a cattle drive, limited experience with cattle, YOUNG, on the sullen side, YOUNG, no letters of recommendation, drifter, YOUNG."

Gil sighed. As much as Yates did not stack up well against the other two candidates, there was something about the young man that gave Favor the distinct impression that this kid, green as he was, was somehow the right man for the job. In the back of Gil's mind his common sense alarm barked a warning. For good or bad, he ignored it.

Gil replaced the pen in its holder, grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall and took his leave of the hotel room. He was a man on a mission – he had to interview this Yates kid one more time.

Favor's quest ended quickly, he found Yates in the nearest saloon, sweet-talking one of the hostesses. _He sure can operate_, Gil thought, not that that was a plus by any stretch. Favor walked up to the bar and ordered a beer.

Noticing him, Rowdy sent the bar girl away, much to her obvious disappointment. As she passed Gil, a string of muttered curses issued from her red, painted lips.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Favor. Lorene, she ain't exactly a lady." Yates said.

"No offense taken." Favor signaled the bartender, "A beer for my friend."

Rowdy grinned, and once again Gil was struck by his youth. That little nagging alarm chimed right in. Again, Favor ignored it.

"Why do you want the ramrod job, Mr. Yates," Gil asked as he picked up the frosted beer mug and led the way over to a vacant table.

Rowdy pulled out a chair and settled his lanky frame onto the hard seat. Thoughtfully, he took a sip of his beer, wiping the foam off across his already stained shirt cuff. "I can't abide working indoors. It's like…it's like being in prison."

Although Yates' gaze never left Gil's face, his eyes suddenly took on a cloudy, haunted expression and he seemed about to leap from the chair and make a beeline out the saloon door. He looked like a caged animal. As suddenly as the expression appeared, it vanished, shaken off like a bad dream. Yates actually smiled. "I like working outside, sleeping outside. I like the sounds and the smells…"

"And the hard ground, rattlesnakes, rain, heat and cold that go right along with it?" Gil asked.

"Well," Rowdy replied, "not those things so much, but honest, Mr. Favor, I'll do the job for you. You won't be sorry you hired me, that much I can promise."

Gil figured on how that would be great, if true, but probably unlikely. Under adverse conditions, and trail drives were fraught with adverse conditions, men were likely to get on each others nerves. He might very well be sorry if he hired this young man, but on the other hand….

"Think you'll be able to give the drovers orders and have them obey you?" Favor leaned earnestly toward Yates. "You're young. You'd be working with men some years your senior. They might not like taking orders from somebody they consider wet behind the ears."

"There's nothin' I can do about my age, that's certain," Rowdy said, "But I'd get the men to work for me, right enough."

"How?" Favor pressed.

"I'd make 'em respect me is how. I'd work along side 'em, prove my worth. Prove I'm no shirker and not afraid to dirty my hands. Your drovers'll work for me, Mr. Favor. Just give me a chance to prove I can do the job!"

Yates' expression was part the eagerness of youth, of wanting to make his way in the world on his own, and part need. He needed this job and badly, but then many men needed work now, after the War, when jobs were scarce in the south and good paying ones scarcer still.

"Just one more question, Mr. Yates." Gil figured this answer would either give Rowdy the job or force Favor to cross the young man off his list. Perhaps it was fair, perhaps not. "Did you serve in the late War?"

Again, that cloudy, haunted look came into Yates' eyes and Gil knew he had his answer. Favor recognized that expression. He saw it every day, reflected back at him from his own mirror, from his own eyes, from his own soul. He stuck out his hand. "You're hired, Rowdy Yates," he said. "Don't make me regret my decision."

Only time would tell if that nagging, common sense alarm of Gil Favor's proved right or wrong.

END


	4. Chapter 4

"I quit, Mr. Favor." Rowdy Yates finished tying his bedroll to his saddle. He checked the Winchester Wishbone silently handed him, making sure the rifle was loaded before sliding it into the scabbard. Beside him, Gil Favor said nothing. It was as if the boss was waiting for Rowdy's explanation. After all, when Favor had hired him, Rowdy swore he could do the ramrod job. Back then, all of six days ago, he had been certain he could. Now, with what happened with the Diehl brothers, how he had hired them because the drive needed more men and they 'looked' like they could do the job, and how they'd come within a hairs-breadth of murdering Pete Nolan, Rowdy knew the job was beyond him.

"I got no sense when he comes to hirin' men. I didn't take the time to see past the horses and gear and my own need to hire on more help to get this drive started. I thought you'd be pleased by me takin' on the extra drovers." Rowdy looked up and into Favor's eyes. "Any fool with half a brain coulda seen the Diehls were trash, but not me…not me."

Favor rubbed a hand across his chin, the thick, two-day growth already well-on to a beard. "You talk to Pete Nolan about this?" He asked.

Rowdy shook his head. "No, but why should I?"

The boss took out fixins and rolled himself a smoke. He took his time about it, getting it just perfect before touching a match to the tip. Rowdy wished he'd hurry up and get on with answering the question. Favor inhaled deeply, the smoke curling from his nose and fanning out about his head. "You're feelin' guilty. Nolan mighta gotten killed by men you hired. You oughta talk to Pete and see how he feels about it…see if he holds you to blame."

Yates seemed less than enthusiastic about the prospect, but he made no move to step up into the saddle and leave, as had been his intent. "Talk to Nolan," Favor repeated, "if you still wanta quit after that, I won't stop you."

For some moments Rowdy stared after Favor's retreating back. Maybe the boss was right. Maybe it _was_ guilt that tore so at him. He didn't even know Pete Nolan, but Gil Favor did, and Joe Scarlet and Jim Quince, knew him and liked him. Maybe it was time Rowdy Yates took advantage of other men's knowledge and stopped trying to do everything on his own.

----

Rowdy found Pete Nolan sleeping on the far side of the supply wagon. He was glad the newly hired scout was asleep, that way he could check out his condition without Nolan being any the wiser. Pete's face, even in the wagon's shadow, showed overlapping bruises in varying shades of black, blue and green. As he shifted his body to a more comfortable spot, Nolan caught his breath and swore softly. He opened his one good eye and blinked up at Rowdy. Yates felt his face color in embarrassment.

"Um, sorry, Nolan…I didn't mean to wake you," Rowdy stammered. He ran a hand nervously back through his thick, unkempt hair. "I…I just." Exasperated, Rowdy shook his head. "I need to ask a question is all."

Pete struggled to sit up and with a bit of assistance from Rowdy he relaxed back against his propped-up saddle. "That's better. I'd rather talk sittin' up than layin' down like some sorta invalid." Nolan grinned in a friendly manner. "Ask away."

Pete's smile was lopsided and almost painful to look upon due to the battered features, but Rowdy judged the expression genuine. Perhaps speaking to the scout wouldn't be so bad after all. He joined Pete, sitting directly across from him, on the hard ground.

"I guess the only way to do this is jump right in, so…I need to know if you hold me responsible for the Diehl brothers…um, for what the Diehl brothers almost did to you last night."

Pete looked questioningly at Rowdy. "You think I blame you for last night? Why, because you hired them boys on?"

Rowdy nodded. "My judgment was poor and my reason for hirin' the Diehls was purely flawed." Yates stared hard at the ground, unable to look into the face of the man he figured he wronged. "We needed more drovers…I hired them to impress Mr. Favor. I never once thought to check 'em out or to be suspicious of 'em. I didn't think."

Pete solemnly shook his head. "I don't blame nobody but myself for what happened with the Diehls. If anybody made trouble for Pete Nolan last night, it was Pete Nolan."

Rowdy Yates felt the weight of the world lift from his sagging shoulders. He actually smiled, which had the scout grinning right along with him. "Let's just say we both made a mistake when it came to the Diehls," Pete said. "And like my pa always told us kids…if you learn something from a mistake, then it ain't been a lesson wasted."

The young ramrod thought for a moment before replying. "Well, then, Mr. Nolan, your Pa'll be glad to know this lesson ain't been wasted. "

"It's Pete, Rowdy," the scout corrected, "and next time I see Pa I'll tell him…for both of us!"

----

Rowdy stood before Gil Favor, hat in hand, a man on a mission. In a clear, unwavering voice he recanted his previous announcement. "I changed my mind about quittin', Mr. Favor," he said. "I want to stay on as ramrod of this drive."

"You talked to Pete, then?" Favor asked.

"Yes, sir, I did. He don't hold me responsible for the Diehls."

Favor nodded. "That sounds like Pete." The boss reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thin, dark cigarillo, which he lit. Rowdy thought as how the boss sure smoked a lot, but naturally allowed the thought to pass without comment. Favor inhaled deeply and a look of utter satisfaction transformed his expression from serious to calmly peaceful. "You think you're up to the ramrod job now, no more doubts?"

"Doubts? I still got plenty, Mr. Favor, but I figure what mistakes I do make…"

At that statement, the boss lifted a single eyebrow, but waited for Yates to finish the sentence before commenting.

"What mistakes I do make I'll learn from and I won't make the same mistake twice, Boss. You can count on it." Rowdy placed his battered Stetson on his head, pulling the stampede string tight beneath his chin.

Favor ground out the remains of his smoke beneath his boot and the calm serenity of moments before vanished, as the serious, 'boss' expression settled firmly onto the chiseled features. "You're damned right you won't make the same mistake twice," he stated firmly. "I'll see to that, and Rowdy," Favor poked his index finger perilously close to Yates' chest, "no more quitting. From this day on, if you leave this drive it'll be at my discretion, not yours!"

Rowdy's head bobbed in agreement and a grin lit his boyish features. "Yes, sir, Boss. No more quitting! I understand…absolutely."

END

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